


he makes chocolate.

by cighail



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic AU since you asked for it, Established Relationship, It got kind of wild in the end, M/M, Merry Chrysle- Christmas!, This is my first domestic au actually, it was really fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 02:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17153432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cighail/pseuds/cighail
Summary: AU where Gawain makes chocolate sculptures but he’s really, really bad at making them.





	he makes chocolate.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Confuzledsheep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confuzledsheep/gifts).



> Hey @confuzzledsheep ! It's your secret santa, me!  
> i love gawain/neza so thanks for giving me the opportunity to write it! i'll be honest I had to go through aboth summaries of Gawain and Nezah to even attempt a beginning at writing this. I hope you enjoy it and happy holidays!

**This hot summer morning and the chirping of sweet fantasy birds heralds a new dawn, a new day, but an old problem for the Masked Knight of Dalmore.**

Gawain kind of wants to die.

You’d think: after all the challenges he had to face, all the trials and tribulations endured for the sake of redeeming his very soul, all the pain and the _blood_ and the _sweat_ , _the_ **_sweat_** pushed out of his (literally) cursed body that no other task would measure up to the near-unending pain of removing his armour.

“Foul enemy.” He spits to the chocolate. It stares back at him like an evil eye, the melting figure’s one good pupil dilating in warped fashion under the heat of the sun. As gentle breeze sifts through open windows, wafting in the scent of petrichor and flowers, the drooping chocolate entangles itself within such harmony like a canker. The knight sucks in a sharp breath and tastes the ungodly amalgamation of odours and it is almost otherworldly.

The chocolate smell hits him like a punch to the nose and Gawain doubles back as if struck, seizing the kitchen table’s edge like an anchor.

“You make me sick.” He hisses under his breath, white-knuckled grip denting the newly coated glaze, glaring at his drooping chocolate mess because he _cannot stand_ the way it stares: that orifice at the chocolate’s centre like the sixth circle of Hell awakened to feast on sinning living. It’s taken sentient form with its chocolate body- Quasimodo without his Esmerelda, pure malignance concentrated into every dripping drop of chocolate that dirties the table oh, _Gawain will get his revenge_ -

A knock interrupts him.

“What?” He whips his head around sharply just as Lyria’s summer dress billows back and back again, startled by his inexplicable fury as the final remnants of his chocolate sculpture’s leg becomes one with plaid tablecloth. She hangs her head in a moment of silence for the lost one, tragic death of a little melting man, before timidly stepping forward once again.

“Having… fun?” She tries.

“Evidently, yes.” Gawain gestures in some sarcastic swing of his hand at the remnants of his hard work now lost to the summer sun.

“I, er,” her fingers twist into her soft blue hem, gaze rooted to the ground by his intimidating stare. “I suppose this is very… relaxing, for you?”

“ _Indubitably._ ” The Hero of Dalmore snaps, holding back another biting snarl as he grabs for a stool to sit on. Angrily. The wood groans under pressure.

 

How far has he fallen, from his height of prominence? Figurehead of the Dalmore military, now reduced to a fool donning an apron splattered in brown smudges, Gawain grabs the chocolate figure with one miraculously unstained hand and bites. It tastes disgustingly good but of course, he’ll never admit it.

 

“I trust you haven’t told anyone about my,” he gestures, mouth curling into a grimace as he forcibly pushes the next word out of his mouth. “-hobby.”

“Oh. Of course not!” Lyria chirps, nodding a little too frantically. “Though, er, actually, it’s been getting a difficult to ignore. All the chocolate, you know. And,” she shifts her feet against the wooden floor, “Nezahualpilli really wants to use the kitchen.”

“That fowl?” Gawain bites back a sneer, you’re better than who you used to be, and opts for a frown instead. “I didn’t see him as the cooking type.”

“Well, he’s all sorts.” She beams cheerily, “He wants to try making desserts. From his tribe!”

 

Indeed. Gawain narrows his eyes, turning back to his Frankenstein’s monster.

“He can find somewhere else.”

 

* * *

 

 

Today, Gran learns that the Eagle Ruler of the Dawn is not so easily dissuaded. In fact, he’s still learning this as Nezahualpilli attempts to push his way past him with brute force - and considering the fact that Gran hasn’t changed out of his pyjamas and Nezah’s clad in armour makes the captain’s efforts very, very impressive.

He thinks. Gran prides himself on trying.

“For the last- time, Nezah, you can’t bring Kree in there.” Nezahualpilli tilts his head at him, birdlike, and if it weren’t for the gentle smile gracing his sharp features Gran would’ve thought the gaze scrutinising.

“I must.” He says, voice heavy, and one feathered hand reaches for Kreetori.

“Nezah- you cant.” Gran holds back a frustrated noise, slamming his hand against the door frame to the kitchen as if to emphasise his point. “He will literally wreck my kitchen."

 

His beak-brother lets out a keening cry, almost offended in his melodic lilt. Beady eyes stare at Gran, weirdly judgemental, and if Gran is about to let a bird boss him around - well he won’t. Obviously.

“Your bird.” The Grandcypher’s captain holds his stance. “Your bird cannot. Enter. My kitchen.”

“He makes the best desserts.” Nezah pushes.

“Where have his feet been?”

The Eagle King draws back, offended. “Rest assured, Kreetori is as clean as eagles come.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” Gran looks at him, wide-eyed, almost in stupendous amusement because he cannot believe he is trying to persuade a grown man from letting his pet bird enter his kitchen. That’s really _exactly what this is, isn’t it?_

 

Skyfaring is a job you just can’t fake.

 

Somehow, there’s a compromise. There really shouldn’t have been a compromise - Gran should have won, in every other world it would have made sense to win this ridiculous argument (who in the _world_ cooks with their bird?) - but somehow Gran has to take the time to reflect upon his current state of affairs as Nezahhualpilli walks past him and towards the kitchen,

And someone screams.

 

* * *

 

 

**The illicit affair has now been _revealed_ to the Grancypher’s captain, who finds himself troubled by new knowledge of Gawain’s troubling hobby.**

Indeed. They both stare, Gran dumbstruck and Nezah awestricken, at the frilly apron donned by a man clearly three times the size of it. He’d never bothered to buy himself one and supposed the act of purchasing such a thing would warrant suspicious looks from other members of the ship, you see, because nothing stays clandestine in a ship that has never once held an empty room.

So yes, it’s Lyria’s. She was okay with it.

 

“That is a delightful smell.” The bird-man rumbles, blinking as the heat and chocolate smell float towards his nose. His eyes are strangely sharp for a room filled with the atmosphere of a hazy summer dream, and Gawain locks eyes with Nezahualpilli. There are flecks of red in there he’s never seen before.

“Get out.” He holds in a breath, unsure if whether the heat is making him cry of embarrassment or literally implode. Perhaps it is a combination of, in which case, the world is indeed cruel to a man who is just trying to repent.

 _I thought I was rid of my curse._ Gawain thinks, _perhaps Florence had other plans._

“Is it Valentines already?” Nezah smiles. “You are as gallant as they say you are.”

Gran wrinkles his nose. “You sure you know who you’re talking to?”

“Of course. This is Gawain.” The Eagle King spreads his arms- a grandiose gesture too excessive for the kitchen as his tribal feathers get caught in the stray cooking utensils and runny chocolate laves the tips of his wings.

“It is.” The knight sighs, eyes distastefully viewing the disaster unfolding before him. “You should change out of that.”

“I like my tribal garb.” Nezah pouts. “I wear the colours of my people.”

“He’s sweating like a pig.” Gran adds.

“So Kreetori and I suffer together,” he shrugs. “What can I do?”

Gawain’s reply is curt. “You can let him suffer alone.”

 

The wind whistles through silence, Nezah’s smile faltering on his lips.

 

“Now what I’m more interested in, is _that_.” Gran butts through the cold ice towards the most interesting matter at hand, now barely nonexistent on a plastic cutting board. Gawain’s bad attempt at drawing the quaint kitchen curtains is folded neatly across from it, torn fabric just visible from jagged shadows flickering over the brown mess. “What kind of alchemy are you conducting here?”

“It’s none of your business,” He retorts sharply. “As you should be aware. I booked the kitchen from eight to ten.”

“You only have twenty more minutes.” Nezah shrugs. “Couldn’t we share?”

“No.” Gawain’s response is nothing short of icey. “We cannot.”

“I can help with the confectionaries.” The other man continues, “Kreetori likes adding toppings.”

“Gods, Nezah,” Gran closes his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, “We talked about this. Your bird is not welcome in my kitchen.”

“And neither are the both of you.” Gawain snarls, one hand grabbing hold of an arm each as Gran and the bird-man are squeezed through the tight doorframe. “Because I’m _busy_ , and you’re _bothering me_ , and _I hope you suffer for your crimes_!”

 

“It’s my kitchen!” comes Gran’s faraway call.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m serious.” The captain says to Nezahualpilli as they sit on the warm wooden floorboards outside. Summer’s heat has yet to fully reach indoors of the cabin corridor, but the sickeningly sweet chocolate aroma wafting through the kitchen door’s bottom slit entwines a warmth between their toes. “I’m not letting you in there with Kree.”

“Alright.” Nezah shrugs, finally defeated. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I do.” Gran folds his arms, determined to come out on top. “I do very much insist. As if your boyfriend hasn’t already fucked up the floor with whatever the hell he’s doing to all that chocolate. Who does he think he is, Clarisse? _Cagliostro?_ ”

“I’m a little proud of his noble efforts.” Nezahualpilli sits up, mind wandering at the thought. “He is just stubbornly foolish when it comes to things his loves.”

“Right,” Gran shakes his head, “Yeah. I know a guy exactly like him.”

“Indeed?” Nezah’s eyes widen with alacrity, turning to meet the captain’s eyes. “Who?"

“You’ll never guess.” Gran replies dryly.

 

The floorboards are getting kind of damp. Nezah sits up, then stands, scrubbing off imaginary motes and dust on his tribal pants before helping Gran to his feet. The sound of the cabin crew waking up is muted through thick walls, a collective groan rising just as the late morning sun swelters a more intense heat. Clouds sprawl languidly across the sky, collectively a bevy of lovers on a sweaty day, and they do little to shade from the light.

 

Someone crows.

“I think that’s Siete.” Gran tilts his head.

“In that case, you should head to the deck, captain.” Nezah rumbles, turning his head to the kitchen. “and I will do my best to assist Gawain in tidying up.” Gran looks, narrow-eyed and doubtful, before nodding warily and staring off into the distance. He’s too tired for this.

“I’ll send Lyria.” He mutters.

 

* * *

 

 

**And finally they are alone, though it is unsure whether one wants to be alone in the presence of the amateurish chocolatier, or a bird who cannot fly.**

When Nezahualpilli ducks his head under the doorframe for the third time today Gawain has his back turned to him. Half of the kitchen’s been sponged down; there’s a clear cut line between war and peace at the chocolatier’s separated by a dirty washcloth haphazardly tossed across the counter.

To acknowledge the bumbling buffoon trundling towards him in his feathery tribal gear and mounds of spiky brown hair would personally feel like a royal disgrace, so he lets the bird-man walk towards him instead- wary, gentle, the way he always is when Gawain gets pissed off.

“Did you change.” The monotone abruptness of his voice sets back Nezah a couple of steps and a breathy laugh follows.

“Admittedly, tribal garb doesn’t suit well for such a narrow space. I have.”

“No kidding,” Gawain rolls his eyes. “Wash the plates.”

“I will.” A flash of pale skin appears beside him, arm reaching over Gawain’s own scrubbed hands to grab the dirty plate he had been making demo sculptures on and it is so _painfully obvious_ exactly how successful those attempts went that the knight winces upon immediate contact.

“It is relaxing, washing dishes.” Nezah says, hands folded over the white porcelain’s edge as water sluices down his fingers.

“It’s torture.” Gawain scowls, looking down at his stained hands. “With no reward.”

“A clean kitchen is it’s own recompense!” The Eagle King chuckles, unfazed by the other man’s sullen expression. “And of course, doing it with you is,” an overbearing pat weighs down on Gawain’s shoulder as Nezah brings his arm around him. “a torture I would gladly endure, if you could even call it that.”

“You are so disgusting.” Gawain sucks in a breath, hands gripping the edge of kitchen counter.

“One day you will find my endearments amusing.” Nezah’s arm grows warm against his bare neck, fingers roughly stroking his hair before drawing away to reach for a knife that had once been used to sculpt away the tiny details of a round, heroic face. An hour into a failed chocolate rhinoplasty Gawain had begun to use it as a fierce weapon and it shows- the knife is half crusted in chocolate, a subtle hint at the brutal mutilation of a once delectable hero now turned delectable mush under his reigning hand.

 

“Was it going well?” Nezah tries.

“Evidently not.” Gawain snaps. “If it weren’t for the stupid eldritch abomination of a ball of gas up there,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at the window. “I’d probably have made a decent effort.”

“You have failed many times.” The other man shrugs. “Try and try again.”

“Easy for you to say.” A pathetically scrubbed plate stares Gawain in the face and he aggressively tackles it with another wet rag. “You haven’t even eaten one yet.”

“Have you?”

“Maybe.” Another swipe of his fingers and the chocolate smudge wipes clean, dish piled onto a rack in a messy cluttering.

 

He turns around, brow contorted in some pent up frustration as he reaches behind for that stupid apron’s tiny strings, but something grabs his arm. Sharp red eyes meet his in some intense staring contest before his vision goes blurry, and the kiss that follows is more curious than it is chaste.

“Gods-” Gawain splutters, gaping into his mouth. Nezahualpilli’s other hand is pressed against his neck, the firm contact of his skin causing it to flare up in heat. Gawain dichotomised is both repulsed and desperately welcome, hands flailing in unsure directions because this goddamn bird tastes like the ungodly amalgamation of morning breath and preened feathers, yet, the twist in his gut is starved of attention and some form of disgust travels down and down and down as Gawain holds him there for a few more seconds of troubled, discomfited noise.

“Mm.” Nezah’s eyes narrow, tongue searching for the taste of chocolate. “Oh.”

“Hn-” Gawain’s hands struggle up the other man’s chest, finally fighting the primal instinct to pull him in, shoving him frantically as his lips begin to bruise. “Off, Nez-”

 

And then his hands are away, Nezah stepping back proudly like he’s surveying his success, and Gawain gasps like fish out of water. He gulps in a cough, face red with anger (of course it’s _anger_ , what did you think it was?), of all the people in this godforsaken world _why him_?

 

“That’s not store bought.” Nezahualpilli licks his lips with an educated nod, looking up with a sheepish grin. “You made it?”

“Get out.” Gawain hisses, hands shaking. “Fuck you. Get out.”

“Are we still eating together?” The Eagle King’s stupidly brown eyes remain wistful. Bloody bird.

Of course not.

 

“Just go.” He glares at Nezah, panting softly.

The bird doesn’t leave in a flurry of feathers; rather, Gawain watches his bare back duck under the doorframe one last time, taking a step before leaving to tilt his head back for one last see-you-later before he disappears.

 

And then the knight is alone again, in his mess again, apron choking his lungs.

 

* * *

 

 

**Oh so lonely is the great Knight of Dalmore! The gleam of his armour present only in the harsh sheen of his unblinking eyes, the cage of dessert delights two frilly pink straps like a string of fated despair. So, what will dear Gawain do with his solitude?**

There’s the obvious ‘Go after him, dumbass’ still trying to register itself as a plausible thought in Gawain’s mind. Only few things are left unwashed - a splat of chocolate across a hanging wooden cabinet, the chocolate wrappers beside his hand crinkling the sort of teasing laughter one would expect from an inanimate little thing. Is it teasing?

“No.” Gawain says. “It’s not real.” And upon hearing the spoken words, finds himself all the more miserable for saying them.

 

**He needs a hero. Little flurry of footsteps, come pad by his door to welcome responsibility into your arms! For the sake of love, of course.**

Ah. Why not?

Lyria’s head pokes into the kitchen. There isn’t too much doubt in her mind when her eyes do some careful surveillance of the room and the conflicted struggle of _**GOOD AND EVIL**_ in Gawain’s fidgeting body. Not every curse is red and shiny, she supposes, and lets herself in.

 

They don’t need to speak. When she does, it’s little more than a whisper - some kind of hesitance to fill the silence that he darts through - because suddenly he is gone. Only a passing glance that bears the slightest resemblance to gratitude is all she catches on an otherwise determined visage.

“You’re welcome!” She pipes to the silence, and somehow it smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> “So you are eating with me after all!”  
> “Sure.” 
> 
> “You have chocolate on your face!”  
> “Oh, really?”  
> “Yes- hold still. Right there.”
> 
> “… Thanks.”


End file.
